What can a feather not do? It cannot write by itself; and yet no hand ever held one that has written what no eye has ever seen clearly till now. It had simply not been possible before. No feather had ever been dead enough to do nothing of itself and so truly live, and see; and in no sight of its own made a way across for others. For every last one of us had demanded to be his own master and serving himself had therefore become his own slave; and by his slavery, his self serving, was made sightless. But in time love’s unseen hand again swooped down and upon its bright two-edged pinion picked up its own loosed feather and with it wrote in life.
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